Novel 1962 - High Lonesome (v5.0) (7 page)

“What’s the matter, Pete? Has marriage slowed you down? Don’t tell me you’re getting fat in the belly as well as the head?”

Runyon’s features settled into hard lines. “I never backed out of a fight in my life, and you damned well know it!”

Considine chuckled tauntingly. “Not before you got married. Has she trimmed your horns, Pete?”

Runyon’s face darkened angrily. He took half a step forward, his fist cocked.

Considine backed away. “Not here, Pete. Down where we fought before—on the same ground. You were lucky there, and you’d better be lucky this time!”

Considine turned to the crowd. “I’m going to lick your sheriff, unless he’s too scared to fight.”

Wheeling, he started down the street toward the corral. The clock said eleven-forty.

A man stood in the door of the bank wearing a green eye-shade and sleeve garters. That would be Epperson. Trust Epperson not to miss a good fight.

Considine hung his jacket over his saddle-horn and led his horse off down the street, the crowd following. He could hear Pete arguing with Mary, but he did not stop. It had to work now…it must work.

Turning into Larson’s feed lot, he put his horse where he could easily get to it, and faced around to meet Runyon. His mouth was dry and his stomach felt empty.

Watch that right
, he warned himself. Watch his right and keep moving. Don’t let him get set.

Mrs. O’Beirne stood on her steps talking to Mary. “Now don’t you worry your head. I’ll not deny it will be a fight, and I’ve been looking forward to seeing it.”

“But Pete…” Mary started to protest.

“A fight never hurt a man, Mary Runyon. Now don’t you worry.”

Mrs. O’Beirne looked at Considine. “That boy! And he came from such a fine family! I’ve always said that things would have been different if the Apaches hadn’t wiped them out when he was a youngster.”

Pete Runyon had taken off his coat and his guns and hung them on the fence. He turned now and moved toward Considine, but he was still puzzled…worried about something.

Considine fixed that. He stepped in quickly and slapped Pete Runyon across the mouth.

D
UTCH HAD DISMOUNTED in front of the saloon, and he looked like any big, lazy, rather fat man as he walked into the bank, brushing by the banker and the cashier who stood in the door, looking toward the corral. Not a man was in sight this side of the corral, anywhere along the street.

Dutch pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece. “I’d like some change for this, mister.”

Reluctantly, the cashier turned from the door and walked back into the bank. Two riders on dusty horses drew up before the bank just then and one of them got down. Through the window Dutch saw Hardy starting for the door.

The banker turned from the door. “Damn it, if I wasn’t a businessman, I’d—”

Hardy put the gun in his back just as Dutch produced his gun on the startled cashier. Leaving both men to be guarded by Hardy, Dutch went behind the wicket, avoiding the glass door.

With swift, practiced movements, he picked up the neat stacks of eagles and swept the gold into his sack. From down the street came the sound of shouts and wild cheering.

There was no waste motion, no hesitation. As swiftly as he had stripped the counters and safe of the gold, Dutch came around the counter, put down the sack, and bound and gagged the banker and the cashier. Then he picked up the sack and the two men went out into the street, where the Kiowa waited.

“Dutch,” Hardy said, “I’d sure like to see that fight!”

“So would I. Come on!”

They walked their horses for the first block, turned down the chosen alley and trotted through the dust, then turned into the hills, and began to ride swiftly.

Once, topping out on a ridge, they looked back. There was no pursuit.

“I hope he makes it,” Hardy said. “I surely hope he does!”

“He’ll make it.”

The Kiowa said nothing at all. He liked the weight of the sack he was carrying, and he was already thinking of Mexico.

Dutch indicated a far ridge. “Smoke,” he said. “We’ll need all the breaks we can get to reach the border.”

By rights Considine should be leaving town about now. He had the fastest horse and should catch them.

On the rim of the distant ridge the smoke lifted a questioning finger, and somewhere farther toward the west another replied.

Dark-skinned warriors riding their shaggy ponies came down out of the draws of that distant ridge like hawks sailing from the high rocks and they scattered in a ragged rank, heading toward the west.

The finger of smoke talked of two people riding one horse…it would be easy, almost too easy.

Their faces were wide across the cheekbones and dark, their eyes like slits of obsidian. Knees clutching the lean flanks of their horses, they rode west.

Chapter 7

T
HAT SLAP ACROSS the mouth had just the effect Considine had known it would, for nothing is so calculated as to drive a man to fury.

Whatever had been worrying Runyon was gone. He moved in swiftly, his fists cocked. Considine watched him coming, and stabbed suddenly with a left that caught Runyon coming in. It was a jarring blow, but Pete kept coming, and ducking suddenly he swung a high overhand right.

Considine saw it coming, but it was fast, faster than any such punch had a right to be. It caught Considine on the side of the head and staggered him. The crowd yelled, and the two men went into each other slugging.

Considine’s foot rolled on a stone and he reeled. Runyon caught him with a wicked left that exploded lights in Considine’s brain, and he tried to clinch, but Runyon moved carefully around, and swung a hard right to the stomach.

Considine clinched, and quicker with his feet than Pete, he back-heeled him into the dust, then stepped back with an elaborate show of courtesy to allow him to rise.

Runyon looked up, partly stunned, wholly surprised, for he knew that Considine was nothing if not a good finisher.

He got up, taking his time, puzzled by Considine’s neglect. He had seen his former partner fight more than once, and when a man was down he rarely got the chance to get up more than halfway before he was clobbered.

There was an angry welt on Runyon’s cheekbone, a cut that trickled blood at the corner of his mouth. He was cautious now, and more dangerous. He would be using his head…and Pete Runyon was a dangerous man. He was two inches over six feet, the same height as Considine, but he was fifteen pounds heavier than Considine’s lean one hundred and eighty-five.

Pete moved in swiftly, feinted, and swung a right to the neck, then stepped in with a smashing left. They fought toe to toe, slugging, smashing, driving. Pete landed a left to the jaw, then a right. He bored in, ducking his head, then charging and swinging overhand blows with both hands. Considine backed up, tasting blood from a smashing blow on the mouth.

With that taste of blood, he was mad for the first time. He pushed his left hand against Pete’s head, then brought up a short right uppercut that lifted Pete’s head where a left swing caught him and knocked him staggering into the crowd.

Considine stepped back, gasping for breath. How much time had passed? Half a minute? A minute?

Runyon moved in and swung a left. Grasping the left wrist, Considine pivoted suddenly and threw him over his shoulder, but Pete had fought Considine before and as soon as the move started he went with it, and landed rolling.

On his feet again, Runyon moved in, and again the two men slugged until they were streaming with sweat and every man and woman in the crowd was hoarse from shouting. Pete caught Considine with a right and knocked him down.

Considine hit the ground hard, shaken by the fall, and he rolled over, starting to get up.
Time? How much time?

He took his time getting up, wiped the dust from his hands, and walked in. He stabbed a left to Runyon’s mouth and was rushed to the corral fence, where he brought up with a crash. He slipped out of the corner, hit Pete again, and a right grazed his own jaw.

They rushed together, clinched, and Pete back-heeled Considine to the ground. He fell, but he got his feet under him and took a breath while the crowd shouted for him to rise.

Considine’s head was buzzing…the roaring of the crowd and the roaring in his skull seemed one and the same. He got up, and Pete charged him. Considine met him with a right to the jaw that smashed Runyon full length on the ground.

Pete lay still, felled like an ox under the slaughterer’s axe.

Panic flooded Considine. If Pete was out…he could visualize the crowd flooding back up the street at the moment his men emerged from the bank.

Gasping and bloody, he moved forward, and in that instant Pete Runyon got up.

Lying face down, he shoved up suddenly and drove at Considine’s knees. Considine came down with a thud and they rolled over and over on the ground, fighting and gouging while the crowd roared. Breaking free, they came up together and fell to slugging with a will. Suddenly, all animosity was gone and both men were filled with the sheer joy of combat. Slugging toe to toe, they moved back and forth across the dusty corral, slamming away exuberantly with both hands.

Runyon was grinning now and, in spite of himself, so was Considine. All his struggle to make it look like a grudge battle was gone. He liked this big man he was fighting, and there was no beating around the bush. He ducked a right fist and smashed his right into Runyon’s belly. Runyon grunted, sagged at the knees, then clinched and butted him under the chin with his head.

Considine’s teeth clicked together and he fell back onto the ground. When he got up he felt a right smash his lips. He spat blood into the dust and heard a great roaring in his head. He feinted and dropped Pete to his knees with a right fist.

Pete got up slowly. He doubled his big fists and bored in, and they fought gasping for breath, wrestling, grunting with the force of the blows, and smashing wickedly at each other.

Considine was exhausted. He did not know how Pete felt, but he knew that he was all in. Pete was a bruiser, no question about it. Considine feinted, slammed a right to the wind, and tried the same combination again and was dropped to his knees when Pete countered swiftly.

How much time? How long had they been fighting?

His feet felt heavy and his arms were tired. He moved in—and suddenly a whip cracked. He saw Mary beside them, and she held a whip and was drawing it back. Only his suddenly up-thrown arm saved him from serious injury.

“Pete, you stop this! Stop it now, or I’ll leave this town and I’ll leave you!”

Pete turned to protest and Considine brushed a hand across his bloody face. “What’s the matter, Pete? Quitting?”

Mary turned on him, but before she could speak men moved between them. “Better ride, Considine—you’ve had your fight. I’d say it was even up.”

Considine looked over their heads at Runyon, and found again that puzzled expression on his face.

Considine lifted a hand. “It was a good fight, Pete! Good-bye…and
thanks!
”

He missed the stirrup with his foot the first time, then made it.
Not too fast now
, he warned himself.

As he rode past the bank he saw a sign hung on the closed door: OUT TO LUNCH.

That would hold them all but Epperson. He would come back to the bank—but he might stop and talk about the fight for a while.

His head ached and his jaw was stiff. He spat blood into the dust and swore, and even the swearing hurt. That damned Pete always could punch. Luckily, his hands were in good shape…they were puffed and swollen, but unbroken. His hands had always been good, they were powerful hands, square across the knuckles and strong. Now he worked his fingers to keep the stiffness from them.

The last buildings of the town fell behind, and he lifted the horse into a trot, then a canter. When he was out of sight of town he ran the horse for half a mile, then slowed to a canter again. Twice he looked back from ridges, but saw no pursuit.

It had gone well, almost too well, yet he felt no elation. What had he done, after all, but thumb his nose at a lot of people who had everything he did not? He always said he had his freedom, but what sort of freedom is it when every sheriff may be hunting for you?

He let the horse canter for a short distance, then ran it again. He saw Dutch before he reached the canyon, for Dutch was standing out there watching for him. In some ways Dutch was like an old mother hen. Considine swung to the ground, and Hardy moved in quickly and switched his saddle to his own horse for him.

Dutch stared at Considine’s face. “How was it?”

Considine merely looked at him and said, “I told you he could punch.”

They stepped into their saddles and started out. The route had been carefully scouted beforehand and they knew what they had to do. The horses had been freed, and they would eventually drift back to Honey’s place or to the ranches from which he had gotten them.

Riding through the soft sand of the wash, they mounted a steep bank and cut across the top of the mesa.

“Saw a smoke a while back,” Hardy said. Hardy was young. He always had something to say.

“We’ll see a lot of them.”

Considine was tired, but his weariness was as much mental as physical. They had brought it off—up to a point. Now they had to get away.

He glanced back at their trail. Nothing in sight. By now they knew. By now Pete Runyon realized what the fight was all about, and he would be good and mad. So would the rest of them be mad…and although some of them would think it a good joke, it would not keep them from running him down and shooting him if he made a fight of it.

His face throbbed with every step of his horse. It was puffed and bruised and cut. Sweat trickled into the cuts, but the sting and smart of the cuts was nothing to the memory of the part he had played back there. Granted that outlaws would be talking of it for years…what had he done?

I
T WAS DUTCH who first saw the smoke. “Now what could that be?” he said, pointing toward the billowing cloud rising ahead of them.